In The Place Of Justice Part 12

On July 24, Roemer announced a shake-up in the corrections hierarchy. Larry Smith, the only ranking black at headquarters, was put in charge of all adult prisons. By month's end, Roemer ordered the state police to conduct a criminal investigation into wrongdoing at Angola.

In August, Maggio filed a report with the federal court highly critical of management at Angola, charging the Butler administration with lax security practices that made it "relatively easy" for drugs and contraband to be smuggled into the prison. That was true, but it was true of every administration I'd known. Butler's administration was also accused of racial discrimination: only 3 of 77 security promotions at Angola above the rank of lieutenant between June 1984 and June 1989 had gone to minorities. That was also true, but racial discrimination had existed under all previous administrations as well. Maggio attributed the manpower shortage to s.e.xual discrimination: only 3 of the 692 females who applied for a job from May 1988 to February 1989 had been hired. (The irony was that Maggio had no more wanted female guards in Angola when he was warden than did Butler.) Maggio also reported that the security deficiencies under Butler "may have been a contributing factor" in the rash of escapes, suicides, and murders.

The governor embraced Maggio's report as being "right on target" and told the media, "We expect to enact the steps brought out in that report." Butler announced his retirement the following day.

Typically, promotions in corrections were contingent upon whom you knew. Larry Smith got his the hard way. He started at Angola and worked his way up. Whenever there was a difficult task to be done, it was given to him. He earned a "troubleshooter" reputation when he was sent to a.s.sume management of the problem-plagued DeQuincy prison in 1987, making him the first black ever to run that facility. Now he was being appointed interim warden of Angola, the first black to preside over the historically white-ruled prison.

One of his first stops was the Angolite Angolite office for what he called a "heads-up talk" with me. "I don't think I have to tell you that you've got some officials in Baton Rouge pretty upset with you," he said. "In fact, I'm supposed to take you out of the equation. I told them I didn't think that kind of action was necessary, that I've known you as long as I've been in this business, and that I've always known you to be about the right thing, and that you could be reasoned with. And that's why we're having this talk." office for what he called a "heads-up talk" with me. "I don't think I have to tell you that you've got some officials in Baton Rouge pretty upset with you," he said. "In fact, I'm supposed to take you out of the equation. I told them I didn't think that kind of action was necessary, that I've known you as long as I've been in this business, and that I've always known you to be about the right thing, and that you could be reasoned with. And that's why we're having this talk."

"Chief, The Angolite The Angolite is pretty much the only voice prisoners have in this state," I said. "If I don't speak for them, who will?" is pretty much the only voice prisoners have in this state," I said. "If I don't speak for them, who will?"

"Well, you got your message across loud and clear. I'd say that you accomplished your objective. My question is: Are you done?"

I nodded. "I've done what I had to do."

"Okay, then," he said. "I have no intention of interfering with the operation of The Angolite The Angolite. In fact, I'd appreciate you and Ron helping me. You guys know this place probably better than anyone else."

Black inmates were ecstatic about having Smith in charge, which made his job easier. For them, Smith embodied hope because he represented the impossible in their lives-a black man running Angola. If that could happen, maybe the impossible could happen for them, too. His wardens.h.i.+p gave rise to great expectations, from less onerous work to better treatment by the guards, from fairness in the disciplinary process to help in getting out of prison. Inmates felt Smith could ease their suffering. He met with inmate leaders and asked for their patience and cooperation; then he ordered prison-wide elections for inmate representatives who would partic.i.p.ate in regular meetings with administrative officials and other inmate leaders to discuss and resolve issues and problems relating to prison operations and the inmate population.

Roemer authorized deficit spending to bring the prison into compliance with the law, the federal consent decree, and Maggio's report. That meant substantial improvements in security procedures, more equipment, additional staff, training programs, an employee pay hike, and a restoration of cuts that had been made in the prison's operating budgets. The court spurred the state to improve ferry service across the Mississippi River for employees who commuted and to complete improvements to the Angola Road, which had been under construction for a decade. That was an immense benefit to prison employees and visitors who had to navigate the muddy, rutted road that connected the prison to the outside world. Jobs and promotions were opened to women and blacks. The Angola prisoner population benefited from all of this: Club meetings and recreational activities were back in full swing; church services were full again; friends and family got full visits; and the stress level among inmates dropped measurably.

Smith expanded on the freedom from censors.h.i.+p Phelps had inst.i.tuted at Angola. He gave his approval for Ron and me to collaborate with Dave Isay, a young New York radio producer, on a half-hour doc.u.mentary about the state's get-tough penal practices and the hopelessness, the deaths, and the state of emergency that followed. Dave showed us how to produce, write, and record a radio program, and then he taught me how to narrate it. The star was Moreese "Pop" Bickham, seventy-two, believed to be the state's longest-confined prisoner. "Tossing Away the Keys" aired on National Public Radio's All Things Considered All Things Considered and was the first such venture between convicts and a radio producer. It won the Livingston Award for Dave, who would, in time, get Bickham out of prison. When he returned to New York, Dave left his broadcast-quality recorder with me in the event I might be able to persuade the warden to allow me to do a program on death row. I was having as full a life and as good a time as anyone who is deprived of his freedom and a normal framework for his life could have. and was the first such venture between convicts and a radio producer. It won the Livingston Award for Dave, who would, in time, get Bickham out of prison. When he returned to New York, Dave left his broadcast-quality recorder with me in the event I might be able to persuade the warden to allow me to do a program on death row. I was having as full a life and as good a time as anyone who is deprived of his freedom and a normal framework for his life could have.

I understand no more now than I did then why Governor Roemer refused to grant me my freedom but trusted me with his political well-being, allowing me to travel around the state without restraints or shackles, and only an unarmed officer accompanying me when I gave talks. I could have literally walked off at any point, which would have done Roemer irreparable harm.

On April 3, 1990, I again flew to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., this time to appear before a convention of newspaper editors to talk to them about running a free press behind bars. I was given a warm reception by several hundred editors the next morning. I urged them to fight censors.h.i.+p, especially as regards prisoners. I impressed upon them that, contrary to the claims of penal administrators everywhere, censors.h.i.+p was not necessary and that a free prisoner press could benefit both inmates and the inst.i.tution. I told them The Angolite The Angolite had proven valuable in easing tensions by dispelling rumor with truth and by helping both keeper and kept understand one another. It wasn't always easy, I said: "If had proven valuable in easing tensions by dispelling rumor with truth and by helping both keeper and kept understand one another. It wasn't always easy, I said: "If you you make a mistake, you get a letter to the editor. Imagine, if you will, a guy with a bandanna around his head, an earring in his ear, nasty scar on his face. Let's call him Bruno. If he doesn't like what I have to say here today, Bruno is quite likely to show up at my office door or my bedside with a clenched fist or a baseball bat. Believe me, Bruno gives a whole new meaning to the concept of letter to the editor." They laughed. make a mistake, you get a letter to the editor. Imagine, if you will, a guy with a bandanna around his head, an earring in his ear, nasty scar on his face. Let's call him Bruno. If he doesn't like what I have to say here today, Bruno is quite likely to show up at my office door or my bedside with a clenched fist or a baseball bat. Believe me, Bruno gives a whole new meaning to the concept of letter to the editor." They laughed.

The appearance meant a great deal to me. Three decades earlier I had committed a terrible sin and was condemned, written off by the world, and left to die-if not by execution, then by incarceration. But here I was, a river of time later, after a long, hard struggle for life and a future in the face of none. I was profoundly mindful of just how far I was from my impossible beginnings.

Jetting through the skies on the way home, I closed my eyes and thought of Linda. The more I learned about her, the more I liked her. She was endlessly interesting. We were from totally disparate backgrounds and cultures, but we saw and thought about things similarly, to the point that I said, "Talking with you is like talking to a minature version of myself. Mind if I call you 'Junior'?"

"Why can't I be 'Senior'?" she asked.

"I don't care, but I'm older than you." She became "Junior."

In 1989 Linda became an investigator for the state board of ethics and moved to Baton Rouge. She was now less than an hour's drive from Angola, where she could conduct research and sit in on public events of interest to me. Her dedication to me was humbling.

We were optimistic about my clemency hearing, a couple of weeks away. Roemer's new pardon board was sympathetic to me. I had endeavored to "do more," as the governor had put it on 20/20 20/20 two years earlier. I had talked to at-risk schoolkids and to criminal court probationers, for which I had been awarded a certificate of appreciation by the mayor of New Orleans. I coedited a textbook, two years earlier. I had talked to at-risk schoolkids and to criminal court probationers, for which I had been awarded a certificate of appreciation by the mayor of New Orleans. I coedited a textbook, The Wall Is Strong: Corrections in Louisiana The Wall Is Strong: Corrections in Louisiana, for use by criminal justice students. There was the precedent-setting radio show. Columbia's Graduate School of Journalism had announced that The Angolite The Angolite was again a finalist for the 1990 National Magazine Award, the fourth time. The most powerful element in our argument for my release, however, had been produced by Linda. was again a finalist for the 1990 National Magazine Award, the fourth time. The most powerful element in our argument for my release, however, had been produced by Linda.

Since Governor Roemer indicated on 20/20 20/20 that he was willing to listen and willing to learn, she and Ted Quant decided that Linda would scour public records for the sort of hard data that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had been treated differently from other convicted murderers pet.i.tioning for clemency. She spent weeks in the secretary of state's office and archives recording every pardon and commutation granted to every Louisiana murderer since 1961, when I entered the system. She and Ted were shocked to see how little time many of them had served. Although ten years and six months had been the understood length of a life sentence for half a century, many murderers had been made eligible for parole after serving a third of that and were eligible to be discharged without parole after serving half of it. Linda found forty-eight executive clemencies granted to thirty-nine formerly condemned prisoners who had been freed since I entered prison in 1961. There were more than five hundred clemencies granted to murderers since 1961. None of those released had served as much time as I had. that he was willing to listen and willing to learn, she and Ted Quant decided that Linda would scour public records for the sort of hard data that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had been treated differently from other convicted murderers pet.i.tioning for clemency. She spent weeks in the secretary of state's office and archives recording every pardon and commutation granted to every Louisiana murderer since 1961, when I entered the system. She and Ted were shocked to see how little time many of them had served. Although ten years and six months had been the understood length of a life sentence for half a century, many murderers had been made eligible for parole after serving a third of that and were eligible to be discharged without parole after serving half of it. Linda found forty-eight executive clemencies granted to thirty-nine formerly condemned prisoners who had been freed since I entered prison in 1961. There were more than five hundred clemencies granted to murderers since 1961. None of those released had served as much time as I had.

From Ron Wikberg, who used sheriff's receipts, prison admission and discharge cards, and fingerprint cards in the prison's Identification Department to identify the arrival and departure of lifers from the penitentiary, she learned that thirty-one convicted murderers had entered the gates of Angola in 1962, the year I arrived. Six carried death sentences; the other twenty-five, life sentences. All had been freed, except me.

Since the bitter opposition to me was coming from Calcasieu Parish, Linda studied the history of murder convictions there. She discovered that up until at least 1976 (her cutoff date) Calcasieu Parish had sentenced to death every black man convicted of killing a white, the highest such rate ever doc.u.mented in America. Whites who murdered whites received the death penalty 23.3 percent of the time; blacks who murdered blacks, 10.4 percent of the time. She discovered that those convicted murderers from Calcasieu who had been released from prison since 1961 had spent an average of twelve years behind bars; she also learned that no black convicted of murdering a white had ever been granted clemency and freed. At twenty-nine years and counting, I had been imprisoned longer than any offender in the recorded history of Calcasieu Parish.

When Linda first told me what she had discovered, I bristled with resentment that I had been singled out for harsher treatment than all those who did little or nothing to earn a second chance but got it anyway. Then I reminded myself that the last twenty-nine years had been a gift: I was supposed to be a dead man but had escaped execution three times. The maturity that had come with age and education was also a gift. And I had learned that optimism, the only antidote to despair, is a choice we make. I had made it long ago, and it allowed me to live a reasonably happy and meaningful life in prison. True, my life over the past twenty-nine years had almost unbearably difficult moments-years, actually-but it was also rich with significant work, friends, and love that came to me from outside the gates. It wasn't the free life that I craved, but it surely was better than the life I would have had on the streets if I had never gone to prison. Still, of course, I yearned for a normal life.

Linda's findings, based on the 101 murder convictions in Calcasieu Parish between 1889 and 1976, revealed blatant, inst.i.tutionalized racism. Her exhaustive research changed the nature of the debate over me: It was now about "equal justice," not "mercy." She submitted "The Rideau Report," eighty-three pages distilling her findings, to the governor's executive counsel and the pardon board in advance of my hearing. The Inst.i.tute of Human Relations of Loyola released the report to the media.

I was once again optimistic about my chances for release. But we should have taken more seriously a comment by the governor a month earlier. In March, the Morning Advocate Morning Advocate reported that Roemer was not yet convinced I should be freed; he intended to meet with bank teller Dora McCain reported that Roemer was not yet convinced I should be freed; he intended to meet with bank teller Dora McCain at my request at my request and that of Reverend James Stovall. "I'll see if that brings any change in my att.i.tude," said Roemer. and that of Reverend James Stovall. "I'll see if that brings any change in my att.i.tude," said Roemer.

I had made no such request. Nor had Reverend Stovall.

As the pardon board convened on the afternoon of April 18, 1990, I heard on the radio that Roemer had met with McCain the day before and decided that he would not grant me clemency.

At two o'clock, my supporters-cl.u.s.tered in the hall and the lunchroom at corrections headquarters-poured into the adjoining hearing room. As usual, I was not allowed to attend. Attorney Julian Murray, who was representing me pro bono, spoke first. He said the governor was quoted as having said that he had spoken with Dora McCain, and "after speaking with Mrs. McCain, that he felt that the crime was so heinous, and it was such a terrible crime, that he was not disposed as of that given moment in time to grant any type of commutation to Wilbert. I would respectfully suggest to the governor that he got the cart before the horse, because he has appointed this board to first hear the evidence, make the recommendation, and then in due course he has to make the ultimate decision."

He continued to press his point before the board: "What [the governor] has undertaken has been an extraordinary act within the history of this state ... we have a government of laws, not of men. And it is not appropriate that Wilbert Rideau have his future and his fate determined by the feelings of one person [Dora McCain] ...in this society we don't allow victims to determine the punishment."

Rick Bryant, an a.s.sistant district attorney making his fourth appearance with Salter before the pardon board, suggested that my case had not been treated differently from others, emphasizing time and again that the Calcasieu Parish district attorney's office opposed the release of all all murderers, a statement we knew to be blatantly untrue. murderers, a statement we knew to be blatantly untrue.

It was particularly ironic that on the day Salter and Bryant made the 250-mile round-trip from Lake Charles to fight to keep me in prison, the Lake Charles American Press American Press ran an editorial about justice in the Calcasieu courts. It outlined the case of a white man, former Lake Charles Dock Board member Terry Hebert, who had killed two pedestrians-a black man and woman-while he was driving drunk. A white judge, Ellis Bond, refused to take a victims' impact statement from the families and accepted Hebert's "no contest" plea. At sentencing, Judge Bond said he believed Hebert would be more careful in his drinking in the future, "considering the agony he and his family had suffered as a result of hitting and killing his two victims." Then he sentenced Hebert to two and a half years in prison, which he immediately suspended and replaced with six months in the local jail. Hebert was allowed to remain free on bond while appealing what his attorneys called an overly harsh sentence. Even the Lake Charles newspaper thought the sentence mocked justice. It was in this context that I read Bryant's front-page statement about me in the same edition of the paper: "Nothing he could do would ever be sufficient for him to be released." ran an editorial about justice in the Calcasieu courts. It outlined the case of a white man, former Lake Charles Dock Board member Terry Hebert, who had killed two pedestrians-a black man and woman-while he was driving drunk. A white judge, Ellis Bond, refused to take a victims' impact statement from the families and accepted Hebert's "no contest" plea. At sentencing, Judge Bond said he believed Hebert would be more careful in his drinking in the future, "considering the agony he and his family had suffered as a result of hitting and killing his two victims." Then he sentenced Hebert to two and a half years in prison, which he immediately suspended and replaced with six months in the local jail. Hebert was allowed to remain free on bond while appealing what his attorneys called an overly harsh sentence. Even the Lake Charles newspaper thought the sentence mocked justice. It was in this context that I read Bryant's front-page statement about me in the same edition of the paper: "Nothing he could do would ever be sufficient for him to be released."

The annual Angola Rodeo draws thousands of tourists who pay to see convict "cowboys" in daring events. An inmate rides a bucking bronco.

In "convict poker," the last man to remain seated at the table rather than run away wins $100. Although injuries sometimes occur, they are rarely serious.

With Ginger Roberts (later Berrigan) in 1979. She came to Angola to give legal pointers to the jailhouse lawyers. She became my first pro bono attorney, recruiting influential supporters and additional lawyers to try to win my release through clemency and the courts.

Frank Blackburn, Angola warden, 197881 and 198487. He called The Angolite The Angolite his "conscience." Under him, the magazine won many honors for investigative journalism that exposed problems at the prison. his "conscience." Under him, the magazine won many honors for investigative journalism that exposed problems at the prison.

In the past, inmates were buried in packing crates and pressed cardboard caskets by a crew of grave diggers. After inmate leaders appealed for change, funerals became meaningful events conducted by inmates and boasting prisoner-made caskets and a horse-driven carriage.

With C. Paul Phelps, Angola warden, 1976, and Secretary of Corrections, 197681 and 198488. He taught me about friends.h.i.+p, civic responsibility, and moral obligation. Phelps turned The Angolite The Angolite into the only uncensored prison publication in America because he thought it would help clean up the prison and improve inmate-employee relations-which it did. into the only uncensored prison publication in America because he thought it would help clean up the prison and improve inmate-employee relations-which it did.

With the decline of furloughs and the loss of other incentives to encourage good behavior, Warden Hilton Butler inst.i.tuted the outdoor visiting program for trusties who remained discipline-free for one year. They could relax with their visitors in a beautiful park on the prison grounds.

Peggi Gresham, Angolite Angolite supervisor, 197685, was the best boss I ever had. The first female to become an a.s.sistant warden in the all-male prison, she commanded respect and cooperation from inmates and employees alike. Here she is with supervisor, 197685, was the best boss I ever had. The first female to become an a.s.sistant warden in the all-male prison, she commanded respect and cooperation from inmates and employees alike. Here she is with Angolite Angolite stringers Ashanti Witherspoon stringers Ashanti Witherspoon (left) (left) and Woodrow Arthur. and Woodrow Arthur.

August 7, 1984: Timothy Baldwin (left), with attorney Bill Quigley, declared to the pardon board that he was innocent of the murder for which he was sentenced to death. The hearing was a charade, as the governor had secretly ordered the board to deny all requests from condemned prisoners. Like many others, Baldwin was returned to death row and executed.

With Margery Hicks, member of the pardon board, in 1984. She told me about the fraudulent clemency hearings for death row prisoners and became my friend and advocate.

Billy Sinclair (left), Angolite Angolite writer, later coeditor, 197786, with his longtime friend and supporter, prison food manager F. Berlin Hood. In a corrupt clemency system, Hood offered to act as middleman for Sinclair to purchase the freedom he was otherwise denied. In 1986, Sinclair initiated an FBI sting against Hood, who was arrested and convicted. writer, later coeditor, 197786, with his longtime friend and supporter, prison food manager F. Berlin Hood. In a corrupt clemency system, Hood offered to act as middleman for Sinclair to purchase the freedom he was otherwise denied. In 1986, Sinclair initiated an FBI sting against Hood, who was arrested and convicted.

Jane Bankston, the first mental health director for the Louisiana penal system, listens to Phelps and me. She recruited a staff of professionals and implemented meaningful programs for the treatment of mentally ill prisoners. She became a supporter and personal friend.

Tommy Mason (bottom left) (bottom left) arrived at Angola in 1969, at age sixteen, with a life sentence for murder. He was a model prisoner, my a.s.sociate editor, and, later, Louisiana governor Edwin Edwards's personal valet. The governor freed him in 1987. A loyal friend, he returned to visit. Dr. Linda LaBranche arrived at Angola in 1969, at age sixteen, with a life sentence for murder. He was a model prisoner, my a.s.sociate editor, and, later, Louisiana governor Edwin Edwards's personal valet. The governor freed him in 1987. A loyal friend, he returned to visit. Dr. Linda LaBranche (center) (center), my unlikely knight in s.h.i.+ning armor, saw me on TV in 1986 and spent the next two decades working to free me.

March 10, 1988: My friend "Dot" Henderson arranged freedom for two rehabilitated lifers as a farewell gift to me as her tenure as Louisiana parole board chairwoman ended.

Model prisoner and lifer James "Black Mattie" Robertson bids farewell to Warden Hilton Butler on July 10, 1989, after forty-one years at the prison. He was paroled following The Angolite's The Angolite's profile of him as the state's longest-confined prisoner. profile of him as the state's longest-confined prisoner.

Larry Smith was the only black warden of Angola, 198990, and the right man for the times, bringing calm to the prison during a state of emergency. He expanded the freedoms Phelps put into place and approved my entry into radio production.

John Whitley, Angola warden, 199095, dubbed "The Man Who Tamed h.e.l.l" by Time Time magazine, was one of Angola's best wardens. With him as publisher, magazine, was one of Angola's best wardens. With him as publisher, The Angolite The Angolite enjoyed its heyday. He approved my becoming a correspondent for National Public Radio and my filmmaking as avenues to educate the public about the realities of prison. enjoyed its heyday. He approved my becoming a correspondent for National Public Radio and my filmmaking as avenues to educate the public about the realities of prison.

Members of Angola's Vets Incarcerated honor their deceased brethren in the prison cemetery on Memorial Day. An estimated 10 percent of the nation's prisoners are military veterans.

Louisiana executioner "Sam Jones" killed twenty prisoners in this electric chair. Photographic evidence published in The Angolite The Angolite showing the mutilation and burns inflicted upon the condemned helped facilitate the state's switch to lethal injection. "Jones" talked himself out of a job when he gave us an interview. showing the mutilation and burns inflicted upon the condemned helped facilitate the state's switch to lethal injection. "Jones" talked himself out of a job when he gave us an interview.

Ron Wikberg, my a.s.sociate editor, married his sweetheart, Kay, upon his 1992 parole after serving twenty-three years for killing a man during a holdup. He was a nice guy and a brilliant jailhouse lawyer, who regarded his prison experience as "positive." Ron and Kay met when he responded to her request for information.

Prisoners meet women through friends and relatives, correspondence, and religious and civic functions at the prison. Some fall in love and marry in the prison chapel. Here, I'm attending the wedding of my a.s.sociate editor Michael Glover (with a borrowed tie) and his bride, Debi.

Burl Cain (left) (left), Angola warden, 1995-present, and Richard Stalder, Louisiana corrections secretary, 19922008. They built an empire on the backs of prisoners, and Louisiana became the leading incarceration state in the country. Cain tolerated no criticism of him or his administration, and freedom from censors.h.i.+p became a thing of the past.

An inmate "lawyer" interviews clients he will represent in disciplinary court. There are many self-taught jailhouse lawyers behind bars, but about fifty well-trained ones work in Angola's Legal Programs Department as "counsel subst.i.tutes" to serve the legal needs of the inmate population.

The Angolite changed constantly during my quarter-century editors.h.i.+p as writers were freed, quit, or died, and as successive administrations brought new supervisors and publishers. Here, with supervisor Dwayne McFatter (bottom), in January 1996: changed constantly during my quarter-century editors.h.i.+p as writers were freed, quit, or died, and as successive administrations brought new supervisors and publishers. Here, with supervisor Dwayne McFatter (bottom), in January 1996: left to right left to right, Lane Nelson, Michael Glover, Keith Elliott, me, Clarence Goodlow, and Douglas Dennis.

With Antonio James, before his March I I, 1996, execution for murder, which was the subject of my TV doc.u.mentary "The Execution of Antonio James." It won me awards, which Warden Cain kept, without even telling me about them.

January 10, 1996: New York radio producer Dave Isay (left) (left) and I await the midnight release of Moreese Bickham and I await the midnight release of Moreese Bickham (right) (right), star of our National Public Radio doc.u.mentary "Tossing Away the Keys." He was freed by the governor after serving thirty-eight years for murder.

After four decades, freedom once again seemed within reach in 2003. Some of my defense team in New Orleans, May 31, 2003. Left to right: Left to right: Julian Murray, Laura Fernandez, Johnnie Cochran, Linda LaBranche, and George Kendall. Julian Murray, Laura Fernandez, Johnnie Cochran, Linda LaBranche, and George Kendall.

Staunch supporters Sister Benedict Shannon, Johnnie Cochran, Norris Henderson, Ted Quant, and Ronald Ware appear at a June 1, 2003, Lake Charles community rally for me.

Reverend J. L. Franklin, who visited me often to monitor my welfare, led a protest at the courthouse following the rally and galvanized black community support behind me.

Free at last! With my mother, who kept the faith for forty-four years.

I married my guardian angel, Linda, in 2008, twenty-two years after she resolved to free me. Her hard work, love, and devotion allow me to wake up in heaven every morning. Here, we're at an awards dinner in the nation's capital in 2005.

Willie B, my first pet, who succ.u.mbed to oral cancer in 2006. From him I learned that unconditional love is not limited to humans and that animals are life forces with needs, feelings, fears, pain, and joys-just like the rest of us.

The pardon board sent Roemer a unanimous recommendation to commute my sentence to fifty-five years, which would mean immediate freedom for me. Without even reviewing the board's decision or its reasoning, Roemer told an impromptu news conference that he had no plans to accept the recommendation.

As much as I tried to tell myself that this was just another glitch in a life that on balance had been pretty good, and that there would be brighter days and new ventures ahead, every rejection required more energy and faith to bounce back from. I'll never get out of this place alive! They're going to bury me here, alone, a prisoner forever I'll never get out of this place alive! They're going to bury me here, alone, a prisoner forever, I thought. The image of Angola's cemetery, set on a remote patch of the prison grounds, rose in my mind: prisoners sealed up in a friendless, loveless place that no one ever visited. I pushed away the fearsome picture of my being buried there in a cardboard box. And I thought of Linda. She's bought into this, thinking hard work and fairness would prevail. Nothing in her life prepared her for this. She must be crushed She's bought into this, thinking hard work and fairness would prevail. Nothing in her life prepared her for this. She must be crushed. The telephone in my office was ringing. I somehow found a reservoir of equanimity as reporters began phoning for my response. "I appreciate the board of pardons having once again expressed their belief in my worth and potential as a human being," I said. "They have also expressed their continued belief in the American principle of equal justice, judging me the same way they judge every other person in this state who has been convicted of murder and then released."

The following day Mary Foster called from the a.s.sociated Press. "Where do you go from here, Wilbert?" she asked.

"I'll try again next year. What choice do I have? I've tried to make amends the best I could in the only ways available to me," I told her. "I've tried to do things that counted over the last twenty-nine years."

And then Francis "Corky" Clifton called. Corky and I had first met on death row, where he arrived in 1965 for killing a man during a robbery. His death sentence, like mine, was judicially amended to life imprisonment after the Furman Furman ruling. Like me, Corky was a small, slight man who had entered the bloodiest prison in America. And like most of the formerly condemned, he was a model prisoner with an exemplary record of behavior. He received not a single visit from his siblings or his children, but, nevertheless, he had remade himself, teaching himself how to repair watches and to paint. Like others who thought they were serving 106 life sentences, he applied for clemency after a decade behind bars and was denied. A second denial followed. In 1983, he won a recommendation from the pardon board for a sentence reduction to fifty years, which was blocked by objections from law enforcement; this, in the new law-and-order climate of that time, had become routine practice for murder cases. ruling. Like me, Corky was a small, slight man who had entered the bloodiest prison in America. And like most of the formerly condemned, he was a model prisoner with an exemplary record of behavior. He received not a single visit from his siblings or his children, but, nevertheless, he had remade himself, teaching himself how to repair watches and to paint. Like others who thought they were serving 106 life sentences, he applied for clemency after a decade behind bars and was denied. A second denial followed. In 1983, he won a recommendation from the pardon board for a sentence reduction to fifty years, which was blocked by objections from law enforcement; this, in the new law-and-order climate of that time, had become routine practice for murder cases.

At the age of fifty-two, with no hope of legitimate release and after two heart attacks, feeling his time was running out, he had staged his failed "Moon Pies" escape. When he was taken back to Angola, he was placed in a small, solitary-confinement cell. Indefinite isolation was his punishment for succ.u.mbing to despair. "Having sit in this cell now for several weeks with nothing, even denied my cigarettes, I have thought a lot about suicide, and it seems to be the most humane way out of a prison I no longer care to struggle in," he said shortly after his isolation began. He had posed a difficult question to me: "Suicide, or endless torment-which would you choose?" I couldn't answer. Ron and I wrote a story about Corky. After it appeared, a woman named Betty Lung wrote to him from his hometown of Hamersville, Ohio. They corresponded, then talked on the phone. She visited him a number of times.

Now Corky was in the hospital and had sent for us. Despite the tubes delivering oxygen to his nostrils, he greeted us with a big smile. "For once in my life, something wonderful is happening," he said. "I'm getting married in five days." He handed us a photo of Betty, who had moved to Louisiana to be near him. Love had brought joy to Corky's life. "Now I've got something to live for," he said. He wanted us to know what a difference we had made in his life.

I know that among both prison authorities and the general public, the common view is that a prisoner is just waiting to find some woman to con and then leave after he is released from prison. That happens, just as it happens that scoundrels in free society take advantage of women. But in my experience, it happens far more often that a prisoner lucky enough to find a woman willing to take a chance on him, love him, and stick by him in the most challenging circ.u.mstances considers himself extraordinarily blessed and wants to keep her.

Just the day before, I had sat at a tree-shaded table on a beautiful sunny day in the s.p.a.cious outdoor visiting park for trusties, watching Linda walk up the hill toward me, and I marveled at the happiness she had brought into my life. Love is a powerful, powerful force. I felt upbeat after our visit to Corky.

Two days later he was dead. Betty took his body back to Ohio, rescuing him from the Angola inmate's nightmare of being buried in the prison cemetery, a prisoner forever.

10.

Hope 19901994 "Have you ever run across anything to indicate that an execution was botched at Angola?" asked Sarah Ottinger, a young lawyer working with New Orleans attorney Nick Trenticosta on the case of Frederick Kirkpatrick, who was scheduled to be electrocuted on September 19, 1990.

Ron and I, each with a phone to our ear, looked quizzically at one another and answered that we had not.

"In fact, prison officials have consistently expressed satisfaction at how well the executions have gone," I said, "particularly in light of news reports of bungled executions in other states."

"Like the electrocution of Jessie Tafero last May, who literally caught fire in Florida's electric chair," Ron added. "But here, neither witnesses nor news media attending Angola executions have ever reported seeing a problem."

Sarah's question was not an idle one. After an unofficial twenty-two-year moratorium on executions, Louisiana had resumed the practice with a vengeance on December 14, 1983, beginning with the electrocution of Robert Wayne Williams. By August 1990, the state had executed nineteen men. To halt Kirkpatrick's impending date with death, Ottinger and Trenticosta were mounting the first legal challenge to Louisiana's use of the electric chair, charging that it burned, tortured, and mutilated the condemned. That was confirmed by photos of Williams taken by his family at the Baton Rouge mortuary that handled his funeral arrangements.

America was marking the one-hundredth anniversary of its first execution by electric chair, an event George Westinghouse, the nineteenth-century inventor of the alternating-current technology used in that killing apparatus, had described as "a brutal affair-they could have done a better job with an ax."

I phoned Rosetta Williams, Robert's mother, and asked for copies of the photographs and permission to publish them. An Angolite Angolite fan and an opponent of capital punishment, she was happy to accommodate us. Because Florida law required postmortem autopsy photographs of executed inmates, Ron requested from authorities there the photos of Daniel Thomas, David Funchess, Ronald Straight, Buford White, Willie Darden, Jeffrey Daugherty, Ted Bundy, Dennis Adams, and Jesse Tafero-the last nine men to die in that state's electric chair. fan and an opponent of capital punishment, she was happy to accommodate us. Because Florida law required postmortem autopsy photographs of executed inmates, Ron requested from authorities there the photos of Daniel Thomas, David Funchess, Ronald Straight, Buford White, Willie Darden, Jeffrey Daugherty, Ted Bundy, Dennis Adams, and Jesse Tafero-the last nine men to die in that state's electric chair.

Florida sent us twenty-six photos; Rosetta Williams sent thirty-three of her son. Because all incoming mail was opened and inspected for possible contraband before reaching us, the arrival of so many grisly pictures, all in color, caused a stir in the warden's office. John Whitley, who had recently replaced Larry Smith as Angola's warden (Smith had been promoted to deputy secretary of corrections), came to see us one evening and asked to see the photos. We laid them out on a long cabinet countertop, a ghoulish display. The photographs, taken soon after the men were electrocuted, vividly showed the freshly burned, mutilated flesh. I was horrified anew, and disturbed again by the shaven heads of the dead men, which seemed to strip them of their humanness. "What am I supposed to be seeing in these pictures of dead people?" the warden asked.

We pointed to the photos of Williams that showed severe burns on his head and leg where the electrodes had been placed, the areas of mutilation larger than the size of the electrodes. He had suffered first-, second-, third-, and fourth-degree burns. "When you compare how he looks with the way the inmates in Florida who were executed look," Ron said, "it's obvious the execution of Robert Wayne Williams didn't go right."

"I was a witness," the warden said, "and I didn't see anything go wrong. There were no problems."

"Chief, how do you account for these burns on him?" I asked.

"His head was covered and he had on clothes during the execution, so we couldn't see his body. When the coroner said he was dead, we were escorted out. This is my first time seeing this."

"There are no postmortem photographs of Wayne Felde, who was executed in 1988," Ron said, "but two nurses who saw him afterward have signed affidavits, describing his physical condition as being even worse than Williams's."

"Do you have photos of Dalton Prejean?" Whitley asked. He had presided over Prejean's execution on May 18, his only one.

"No, sir," Ron replied, "but you were there. Did he look anything like Robert Wayne afterward?"

"I don't know what he looked like," said Whitley. "Again, he had a hood over his head and was fully clothed. When the execution was over, I signaled the coroner, who came in to check his heartbeat and officially declare him dead."

"Chief, you didn't look at him?" I asked.

"For what?" he asked in return, a little testy. "My job was done. The witnesses left, and I left. Paramedics went in afterward and removed the body."

"Chances are your predecessors all did the same thing," I said.

Whitley, forty-six, was a year younger than me, with a fondness for Stetsons and cowboy boots. He had begun his career at the violent Angola of 1970 as a cla.s.sification officer. With guts and a mind of his own, he quickly established himself as an independent power to be reckoned with, someone you wanted with with you, never you, never against against you. Maggio eventually made him director of cla.s.sification, and in 1978, he became deputy warden. The following year, he transferred to Hunt Correctional Center and four years later became warden of the facility. Retiring in 1989, he moved to Texas, where he served as warden of a prison operated by Wackenhut, Inc., a privately owned, for-profit enterprise to which states outsourced their excess inmate populations. He had returned to Angola earlier in the year to replace interim warden Larry Smith. Phelps a.s.sured me that Whitley would make a good you. Maggio eventually made him director of cla.s.sification, and in 1978, he became deputy warden. The following year, he transferred to Hunt Correctional Center and four years later became warden of the facility. Retiring in 1989, he moved to Texas, where he served as warden of a prison operated by Wackenhut, Inc., a privately owned, for-profit enterprise to which states outsourced their excess inmate populations. He had returned to Angola earlier in the year to replace interim warden Larry Smith. Phelps a.s.sured me that Whitley would make a good Angolite Angolite publisher because he could be relied upon to stand his ground and not let anyone dictate to him. Phelps was right. Whitley believed in a visible and accessible administration. While he regarded himself as a criminal justice conservative, he was very much a progressive in that he did not believe in censors.h.i.+p or in secrecy and vowed to continue the open-door media policy at the prison. "If there's something that's wrong in the prison," he announced upon a.s.suming the wardens.h.i.+p, "I want to know about it, and my staff had better correct it, because I intend to be proud of this prison and the way we operate it." Our proposed publication of the postmortem photographs of Robert Wayne Williams was his first test as publisher of publisher because he could be relied upon to stand his ground and not let anyone dictate to him. Phelps was right. Whitley believed in a visible and accessible administration. While he regarded himself as a criminal justice conservative, he was very much a progressive in that he did not believe in censors.h.i.+p or in secrecy and vowed to continue the open-door media policy at the prison. "If there's something that's wrong in the prison," he announced upon a.s.suming the wardens.h.i.+p, "I want to know about it, and my staff had better correct it, because I intend to be proud of this prison and the way we operate it." Our proposed publication of the postmortem photographs of Robert Wayne Williams was his first test as publisher of The Angolite The Angolite.

"Tell me-what are you trying to accomplish with these pictures?" he asked. "Make a case against capital punishment?"

"This is not about the issue of capital punishment," I said. I did not acknowledge that we thought publis.h.i.+ng the sensational photos would probably result in a halt of the use of the chair. "A claim has been filed in court charging that the electric chair is defective and has been mutilating and perhaps torturing the inmates being executed. It's a legitimate story."

"The legislature just pa.s.sed a law ending use of the chair," he said. "We'll switch over to lethal injection in a year."